Irresistible? (4 page)

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Authors: Stephanie Bond

BOOK: Irresistible?
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The man who entered whistled tunelessly, probably celebrating the forthcoming weekend. When he stopped in front of her stall, Ellie held her breath. She could see the shadows of his feet and legs. At last, he walked away from her hiding place and stopped near the urinals, she deduced. Sure enough, she heard the slide of a zipper and the sound of urine splashing against porcelain. Ellie grimaced and prayed he had a small bladder.
What if someone else came in? What if a whole crowd came in at once? She'd be trapped listening to a herd of men relieving themselves!
The man peed. And peed. Ellie rolled her eyes. This guy belonged in the record books. And just when she thought he'd stopped, he started again with the same gusto. Her arms began to ache from balancing herself between the slick walls. She repositioned herself slightly forward to relieve her shoulder pain, and caught a glimpse of the marathoner's back through a tiny slit in the closed door. Her hand slipped and she caught herself, thumping lightly against the stall. She jerked back and held her breath, then relaxed. He seemed to be conjuring up a grand finale, too occupied to hear her.
Finally, the man zipped his pants and flushed the urinal. Ellie listened as he washed his hands slowly and seemed to dry them just as slowly. He walked by her stall on the way out, and she grew weak with relief.
Then she dropped her purse.
Most of the contents were emptied on the first bounce, then the silver bag rolled out of sight. Makeup, coupons, pens and miscellaneous items scattered everywhere. She watched a tampon slide until it stopped by a leg of the stall. She closed her eyes and waited.
At first there was no sound at all. Then the man took three slow steps back to stand in front of her door. And he knocked.
Ellie swallowed. “Y-yes?” she managed to get out.
“The ladies' room is down the hall.” His voice vibrated deep, distorted with echoes.
“I, uh, I didn't know this was the men's room,” she improvised.
“Are you standing on the toilet?” he asked, incredulous.
She carefully stepped down and straightened her shoulders, then addressed the man through the closed door. “No,” she said, and bent to retrieve the strewn articles within her reach.
He'd bent to pick up the purse and the items laying outside the stall. He wore nice shoes, soft black leather loafers with perfect tight little tassels. On feet big enough to make Manny salivate.
After a few seconds, he asked, “Are you coming out?”
“I'd rather not,” she confessed.
“Okay,” he said, his voice booming. He sounded close to laughter. “I'll put your purse on the counter and leave.”
Ellie waited several seconds after the outer door closed before she moved. She opened the door and scooped up her purse, quickly checking the floor for wayward keys or coins. Then, praying fervently the man wasn't waiting outside, she swung the door open and stuck her head out.
No one in sight. Uttering her thanks, she trotted down the hall and reclaimed her seat near the still-distracted Monica. When the secretary ended her phone call, Ellie stood and asked, “Has Mr. Blackwell returned?”
Monica shook her head. “Any minute now, I'm positive.” The phone rang again and she answered it quickly.
Ellie sighed. Then, hearing someone approach, she turned, and inhaled sharply. Mr. Italian Suit. The yuppie who'd ruined her skirt! What was
he
doing here?
Still several feet away, the man slowed, his head tilted in question. Suddenly, his eyes widened in recognition, and he strode toward her, his forehead knitted. “Look,” he said, making chopping gestures in the air, “I don't know how you found me, but I'm not giving you another red cent for that overpriced skirt you said I damaged.”
Fury gripped her. Ellie drew herself up to her full height of five foot two inches and leaned toward the fool, ready to...to...muss his hair. “For your information, you big klutz, I have no idea who you are and I haven't been looking for you.” She lowered her voice to a hiss. “I'm here to see a client and I hope you scram before he gets here because I'd like to make a good impression.”
Blue eyes blazed into green ones as the silence mounted. Behind them, Monica hung up the phone and coughed politely. “Excuse me, Mr. Blackwell.”
Ellie heard the name and the pieces fell into place. She felt the blood drain from her face. “You?” she whispered.
“Me, what?” he asked impatiently.
“You're Marcus Blackwell?”
“Mark Blackwell,” he corrected. Turning to Monica, he asked, “What's going on here?”
“This is Ellie Sutherland, sir. She's here about your portrait.”
He frowned and threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration. “I'm lost.”
“Didn't Mr. Ivan tell you? Your portrait will go up in the boardroom beside the other partners'.”
Mark Blackwell glanced from Ellie to his secretary. Ellie relaxed her stance and offered him an exaggerated shrug, smiling wryly.
“I'm not prepared for this,” he said finally, in a guarded tone.
Ellie gave him a shaky smile. “This isn't litigation—there's nothing to prepare for.”
He looked at her, chewing his lip. Obviously Mark Blackwell stood in unfamiliar territory, and didn't like it one bit. His eyes narrowed. “And how, may I ask, did you get involved?”
Ellie smiled brightly. “I'm an artist.”
Mark rolled his eyes and sighed mightily. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”
She glared. “What's that supposed to mean?”
He waved dismissively. “Forget it, um—what did you say your name was?”
“Ellie,” she said with growing impatience. “Ellie Sutherland.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture she recognized from the deli incident. “Well, Ms. Sutherland, perhaps we can discuss this, er, project in my office.” He swept his arm toward a door a few steps away and motioned for Ellie to precede him.
She stood her ground. “After you.”
He pursed his lips, then turned and walked toward the door.
Ellie noticed the painting as soon as she entered the huge masculine room. She walked over to it, soaking up the familiar shapes and colors. An afternoon in the park. A cliché, really, but her first truly good piece. There had been others since, additional impressionistic renditions of city landmarks, but she had been especially proud of Piedmont Park and the price it had brought. She lifted a finger, and almost touched the canvas. “Nice picture,” she murmured.
“Nice purse,” he said sarcastically.
Ellie's hand flew to her bag as her eyes swung across the room to his feet. They were big feet, wearing nice black leather loafers with tight little tassels.
“Do you make a practice of skulking in men's washrooms, Ms. Sutherland?”
She felt a blush start at her knees and work its way up. She raised her scorching chin indignantly. “Certainly not. I told you, I didn't know it was the men's room.”
“Sure.” He smiled a disbelieving smile, then leaned on the front of his desk. “Now then, what do you need from me?”
Ellie turned and took a step toward him. Their eyes locked. And just like that, something passed between them. At least she felt it.
A shiver ran up her back, and a low hum sounded in her ears. Looking at him, she realized she'd done a shamefully good job of capturing his features for the caricature. His eyes reminded her of a length of dark green velvet she'd once bought just because she liked it. She'd hesitated to cut it, to tamper with the natural drape of the lush fabric. She'd ended up folding it across the footboard of her bed, unhemmed. Now every night when she went to bed, she'd be thinking about Mark Blackwell's eyes.
“Hmm?” she asked, completely oblivious to the reason she'd come here.
Mark shook his head, as if to clear it. “Um, I asked, what do you need from me?”
This time, his words were slow and coated with fresh meaning. Need from him? A hundred images galloped through Ellie's mind, and Mark Blackwell loomed naked in all of them. She could see the surprise in his eyes, the slight confusion lurking there. Then she remembered. Of course, the pheromones.
For an instant, disappointment fluttered in her chest. Then she recovered and walked closer to his desk, conjuring up a natural smile. “Just a few hours of your time, really.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Do you have a favorite suit?”
“I never thought about it,” he answered slowly.
“One you reach for when you have a very important meeting?” she coaxed.
He pondered for a few seconds, seeming embarrassed. “My olive one, I suppose.”
“I've seen it,” Ellie said, nodding her approval. “It's a good choice.”
“Is this a new look?” he asked, eyeing her avant-garde hair and outfit.
Ellie recognized a diversionary tactic when she saw it. She looked down at her trendy, chic clothes. “Don't get out much, do you?”
His left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch.
She blinked purposely and continued. “Wear the olive suit to the first sitting. Bring both a solid white shirt and an off-white shirt. And a handful of ties.”
“First sitting? I'm afraid this is all new to me.”
“I'll need you to sit for me for a total of about fifteen hours.”
His eyes widened. “Fifteen hours?”
Ellie laughed and raised her hands in defense. “Not all at once. One or two hours at a time—whatever you feel up to. I'll take photographs to work from at home.”
He scowled and folded his arms. “I'm not comfortable with this.”
The toothpick remark she'd made to Manny came to her lips, but she bit it back. Instead, she said, “Just relax—I'm not painting you in your mallard-print boxers.”
Mark studied her for a minute, the tiniest hint of a smile lifting the comers of his mouth. “I don't wear mallard-print boxers, but then I thought you'd know from your earlier vantage point in the men's room.”
Ellie swallowed. Maybe he wasn't as uptight as she'd thought. “Briefs, then.”
He shook his head. “Wrong again.”
“Bikinis?” she squeaked.
Mark extended a finger and beckoned her to come closer. Ellie did, and leaned forward for him to whisper in her ear. “Bare-assed.”
Ellie jerked up and took a step back before she realized he was laughing at her:
“That wasn't very nice,” she retorted.
“You fished for it,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Where were we?” she asked, trying to reassume a professional stance.
“I was sitting for you.”
“Shall we do it here in your office?”
His eyes raked over her body. “It would be a first, but sure.”
Her pulse leaped. The image of them vibrating his desk across the room came to mind, but she stifled it. The chemicals she emitted triggered his reaction and she'd do well to remember that. She forced a serious face, refusing to verbally acknowledge his innuendo. “Fine. When?”
He still smiled, his eyes dancing. “Tomorrow morning at nine?”
“I'll be here with my camera,” she said, already walking toward the door.
“You bring your equipment,” he called to her. “And I'll bring mine.”
Mark caught the flash of her silver purse being slung over her shoulder as she closed the door. Where had that idiotic comment come from? He jumped up and clutched his head with both hands, pacing. He'd never made suggestive comments to women he'd worked with. Willing women were plentiful, he'd never had to worry about mixing business with pleasure and risking a ruinous outcome. He cursed, rubbed his eyes, and walked the length of his office to his liquor cabinet. Appraising the newly stocked shelves, he selected a fine Kentucky bourbon, and poured himself a shot.
Tomorrow he'd conduct himself like the professional he was. He'd refuse to rise to her bait, no matter how enticing. The last thing he needed was for a nut like Ellie Sutherland to complicate his life.
3
“Y
OU'RE JOKING.” Manny said, his eyes wide.
“Nope,” Ellie declared, swallowing a bite of cheese omelette. “It was him, in the flesh.”
“Was he as dreamy as you remembered?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely.”
“And single?”
Ellie frowned. “I didn't notice a wedding ring, and he was kind of...flirtatious. But that doesn't mean anything these days.”
“You said it, girlfriend.”
“He's too stuffy, and way out of my league. He probably has a black book full of women named Muffy and Phoebe.”
Manny touched her forearm. “You're probably right.” Then he grinned. “So why don't you introduce him to
me?”
“Sorry,” Ellie said, and pulled a sympathetic face, “but I don't think Mark Blackwell is your type, either.”
“I can put on a skirt if he insists,” Manny said, pouting.
“I'll see if I can work it into the conversation today,” she offered sarcastically.
Manny lifted a sausage link to his mouth and bit off an end suggestively.
“You're a kook,” she said, laughing.
“Me?” he asked. “Who's the one who sneaked into the men's room and listened to him pee?”
“I didn't see anything.”
“Oh, so you did look?”
“No!” She grinned sheepishly. “Okay, I peeked, but I only saw a sliver of his back. Cut the wisecracks for a minute. I have to tell you the strange things that happened yesterday.”
“I'm all ears.”
Ellie told him about the incidents with men on the street, with Steve Willis, her co-worker, the taxi driver and some of the things Mark Blackwell had said to her. “And when I got home, Steve Willis had left a message on my machine. I haven't had
that
many men flirt with me in my lifetime,” she asserted, reaching for the bottle of pink tablets. “It has to be these pheromones working.”
“Well, aren't you glad they're working? What's the name of the manufacturer? I'm buying stock.” He reached down to stroke Esmerelda's ears.
“Do you think I'm imagining things?”
“I think you're horny. You haven't had a relationship since...Drew, wasn't it? That was ages ago. I've forgotten, why did you end it?”
“His penis had attention deficit disorder.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Manny nodded. “Well, if you want to see if the pheromones are causing all the hullabaloo, don't doll up today and see if you get the same results.”
Ellie snapped her fingers. “Good idea.”
 
THE LAW OFFICES of Ivan, Grant, Beecham and Blackwell were several blocks away, but easily accessible by bicycle. Ellie pulled on a neon green helmet that matched her bike, strapped on her backpack of supplies and jumped on to begin pedaling away her breakfast calories. No man could possibly flirt with her at this speed.
It was another beautiful day, too nice to be cooped up inside. She figured she'd be through with Mark Blackwell by noon, then she could spend the day sketching crowds at Underground Atlanta in preparation for her next portfolio painting. She stopped at a traffic light and waited for a police officer to wave her through the dense jam.
The police officer was within touching distance. And, she noticed, cute beneath his half helmet. He waved the traffic by on the side street, but his eyes stayed on Ellie the entire time, a whistle clasped between white teeth. She smiled at him and he smiled back. He waved through more traffic and studied her legs. She smiled. He waved through more traffic and winked at her. She winked back. Suddenly horns began to sound behind her from commuters impatient with the lengthy amount of attention the officer paid to the cars on the side street. Finally, he pulled his eyes away from Ellie and blew his whistle to halt the line of cars whizzing by. When she pedaled by, he lifted his hand to his helmet in a friendly gesture. Definitely the pheromones, she thought.
When she reached Mark's building, she took the elevator to his floor. The law offices were much quieter than the previous day, but still busier than Ellie imagined they would be for a weekend. On the other hand, Mark Blackwell probably worked Saturday, Supday and holidays. To her surprise, more than one set of male eyebrows raised appreciatively when she made eye contact in the halls. Of course, she did look a little out of place wearing her cycling togs.
Monica's station sat neat and unoccupied, so Ellie stepped to Mark's office door and knocked.
“Come in,” he called.
He sat at his desk, pen in hand. He glanced at his watch and said, “I was getting ready to check the men's room.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I had a flat this morning.” She patted her bike, walked it over to the side wall and lowered the kickstand.
She pulled off her gloves and realized he was staring quizzically at the bike. “No place to chain it up out front,” she said cheerfully. “I can't afford to have it stolen.”
He pointed to the bags of dried herbs she'd picked up from a street vendor on the way. “I hope you don't plan to smoke that stuff.”
Ellie glanced at the ingredients she'd purchased for a new perfume recipe. “Not here,” she said, grinning wryly.
“Is that your night gear?” he asked, smirking, and indicated her neon clothing.
Ellie looked down at her pink bike shorts and bright yellow tank top. She had certainly dressed down today, complete with running shoes. She pulled off her helmet and ran a hand through her short waves. “You can't be too safe in this traffic.”
He stood, tossing the pen on a stack of documents, and tugged gently at his waistband. Ellie caught her breath. Mark Blackwell looked deadly in pleated olive slacks and an off-white shirt, open at the collar and revealing a shadow of dark hair.
Easy
,
girl
.
This is just a job
. His jacket hung from a light-colored wooden valet in the corner behind his desk. Several ties hung there, as well as a white shirt, still under the dry cleaner's plastic.
“I see you brought the things I suggested,” she said, nodding her approval.
His eyes locked with hers. “I'm nothing if not obedient,” he said in a tone which indicated that wasn't the case at all.
The undigested omelette flipped over in her stomach. “Well,” Ellie said nervously, “let's get started, shall we?” She unstrapped her backpack and pulled out a folder. “I've taken the liberty of drawing up an employment contract.”
Mark poked his tongue in his cheek as if he was amused, but said nothing.
“Pretty simple stuffy, really,” she continued. “It mentions the materials used, the fee and the delivery time frame of the portrait.”
Mark reached for the document and read it quickly. His eyes swung up to her. “I would never have imagined painting to be so lucrative.”
Ellie set her jaw and took two deep breaths. “It isn't. Jobs like this are few and far between. And I'm buying all the supplies, which includes framing the finished portrait.”
“Still, it's a lot of money. You must be very good.” He sounded doubtful.
Ellie bit her tongue, tempted to mention the Piedmont Park scene hanging ten feet from her, but the thought suddenly struck her that maybe he didn't even like the picture and had merely inherited it with the office. Instead of leaving herself open, she raised her chin, gave him a small smile and said, “I am
very
good.”
Mark Blackwell chewed on his tongue for a moment. Then cleared his throat. “What is a ‘kill fee'?” he said, looking back to the document.
Ellie shrugged. “My protection. I do freelance photography for magazines, and I've been burned on last-minute publishing cancellations. This protects me if you—” She stopped and bit her bottom lip.
“If I'm run down by a beer truck?” he finished.
“You could say that, although I doubt if the term has ever been applied quite so literally.”
“What if I don't like the painting?” he asked, laying aside the contract and folding his arms.
Ellie opened her pack and pulled out miscellaneous supplies, including a camera. “Satisfaction guaranteed,” she said, smiling wryly.
He opened his mouth to speak, but a knock on the door stopped him. “Yes?” he called.
The door opened and a handsome, wiry, black-haired man stepped in. “Blackwell, about the Morrison deal—” He stopped when he spied Ellie, a blatant admiring look crossing his face. Glancing back to Mark, he said, “Maybe we can discuss this some other time.”
Mark's face hardened. “After our conversation yesterday, Specklemeyer, I thought there was nothing left to discuss.”
The tension between the two men hung in the air, almost palpable. “Perhaps I should wait outside,” Ellie offered, starting for the door.
Mark stopped her, holding up his hand. “No.” He glared at the younger man. “This won't take long.”
Specklemeyer's shoulders went back and anger diffused his smooth skin. “Morrison is my client, and I intend to do what the man asked me to do.”
Mark's voice hummed low and deadly. “You work for this firm, and you will do what you're instructed to do. If not, there won't be anyone here to cover you when the IRS comes calling for you.”
The man's face contorted in a sneer. “Being partner has gone to your head already, hasn't it, Blackwell? Last week you were just a flunky like the rest of us, and now you think you have veto power.”
“You're wrong,” Mark said calmly, refolding his arms. “I
know
I have veto power.”
The other man's eyes narrowed, his fists balling at his sides. Convinced they were going to fight, Ellie moved her supplies back a few feet to the perimeter of the office, but when she glanced up, the younger man was stalking toward the door. He closed it with a resounding slam.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Mark said into the ensuing silence. “Tell me how this works,” he said, waving an arm to encompass Ellie and her things.
“First I need to see the other portraits yours will be displayed with so I can maintain the corporate mood, so to speak. Your secretary mentioned it will be hung in the boardroom—is it close by?”
“Right this way.” He led her out of his office and down a wide hallway. The boardroom sat dim and deserted this weekend morning. It reeked of old books. The overhead lights did little to brighten the dark paneled room, so Ellie opened all the blinds. Then she walked around the room, perusing the five large somber portraits adorning the walls. Two partners had apparently retired—or worse.
“Pretty standard stuff,” she acknowledged, pulling a tape measure from her pocket and recording the size of the canvasses and frames. She glanced at the towering man beside her. “Wouldn't you at least like to smile in your portrait? Remember, it'll be your legacy.”
Mark frowned. “My legacy will not be a vanity painting on a wall.”
His vehemence surprised Ellie. “You have children?” It hurt more than a little to know he was married, after all.
The frown deepened. “No, I don't have any children—yet.”
“But you're married?”
“No,” he said, a bit flustered, then added, “not yet.”
“Engaged?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh, you're one of
those,”
she said knowingly, then turned her eyes back to the painting in front of her, immensely relieved.
“One of those what?” he said defensively.
“You're a Peter Pan man. No wonder green suits you,” she said, indicating his slacks.
His mouth opened, then closed. Pointing with his index finger, he said, “I don't believe this—
you
are psychoanalyzing
me
? And what is all this Peter Pan nonsense? Let me guess—
Cosmo's
feature this month, right?”
“There have been volumes written on men like you,” she said, sashaying past him into the hall.
He caught up with her in a few seconds. She thought he'd be angry, but surprisingly, he seemed to concede defeat. “Do you by chance know my mother?” he asked. “Gloria Blackwell sent you here to torment me, didn't she?”
Ellie laughed as she reentered his office. “No, I don't know her, but I know someone just like her in Florida—Gladys Sutherland.” She shrugged. “It's universal. It's what mothers do.”
One corner of his mouth went up. “Is your mother a matchmaker?”
Ellie snorted. “She's Chuck Woolery in a girdle.”
He laughed. “Mine, too. The last woman she set me up with brought a book along to read.”

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